Making a Change
by RedYote
Summary: Ferik Shepard has been part of the Reds for most of her life, following orders without question. But there is a turning point in everyone's life, and she is about to discover hers.
1. Walking the Path

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Block out all the outside sounds, all the screaming, all the gunfire. Your world is through the scope of the lens, sighting down the barrel at your target. You can't afford to miss.

One last breath to steady yourself. You see eyes turn to look at you through the magnified lens of the scope, see them narrow in suspicion. The mouth starts to open.

Your finger presses back on the trigger like it's done a hundred times before. Just enough pressure to trigger the firing mechanism, not enough to throw off your aim.

There's a crimson mist that explodes from the back of the target's head before they drop. Your world expands to include the feeling of the concrete pressing into your abdomen, the weight of the gun pressed into your shoulder like it was saving you from drowning, the knowledge that there is one less life in the world, thanks to you.

"Nice shot." A muffled voice on the radio, barely audible above the expletives being shouted at the street level. They'll be looking for you soon. You won't be there. You never are. Just a ghost in the city like you've always been since you were a kid. Overlooked. Ignored. Dirty.

You dismantle the gun with practiced hands, placing the pieces into their compact case before sliding it into your backpack. The rough canvas bag is as dirty as you are, and has survived just as much.

They're sending people to check out the buildings nearby. You can hear footsteps heading up the stairs. They'll check floor by floor, ripping apart any hiding place they can find. The fire escape isn't an option, but it's never been.

You check the alley to make sure no one's watching, then you take that leap of faith. You practiced it before the hit. You know the distance you have to go.

The case digs into your back as you roll on impact, absorbing the momentum. You ignore the pain; it's a distraction, meant to get you killed. The minute you get your feet under you, you're off towards the next rooftop, breath coming in small concentrated puffs like a steam engine. Three buildings over. That's where your exit is. That's where the roof leads into a blind alley maze that you know like the back of your hand.

Another leap, another roll. The gravel bites into your arm as if it knows what you've done, knows what you're running from, knows that you've taken another life for no reason other than his words. It's not important right now. Nothing is besides escape.

They've just reached the roof where you took the shot when you hit the edge of the last rooftop. Their howls of rage are music to your ears, but you don't look back until your feet hit the muddy ground, splashing a foul liquid on your pants.

He meets you at the agreed-upon place, grinning from ear to ear. "One helluva shot you took there." Of course he's happy. You've just lessened the competition by one. It was your suggestion to prevent losses that had you up there on that roof, your idea to get your hands dirty to spare some of the younger members. It had been a reckless call, one that could have gotten you killed, but he was willing to go along with it.

You try to mimic his smile. It doesn't quite reach your eyes, but he doesn't seem to notice or care. "The bastards won't be messing with our turf again!" He crows, clapping you on the shoulder, leading you away from the anger of the rival gang. You understand why it had to be done, but part of you is starting to wonder if you will ever be more than just a tool.

Life wasn't always like this. You remember having parents once upon a time. There was laughter and joy and kind words. But there is no kindness on the streets, no room for mercy in the world you live in. Their faces have been lost to you over the years, replaced by survival knowledge. How to clean a pistol. How to steady yourself against the recoil of the shot. How to navigate the streets and disappear into the crowds.

Your once brilliant red hair is covered in a layer of grime and dirt, turning it a dingy brown. You prefer it that way; it's less likely to catch light and give you away. It also makes you blend into the rest of the gang.

Blending in is how you survive in the streets. There's ambition in the gang leaders, but you know better than to challenge that. It's best to go along with them and save the questioning for important matters. You learned these things early on, when they found you huddled near a dumpster looking for food.

You were tested first. No weapons. Just spying. Information gathering. When you were older, they gave you an old pistol. You were a distraction, expendable. But you were a damn good shot. You practiced every chance you had.

They weren't stupid. They noticed that you rarely ever missed. You were sent out on more missions, not as a distraction, not as muscle, but as backup. You hid in the shadows, watching, waiting, and if things went south, you calmly took out the enemy while the more important members escaped.

When they started expanding, they found military supplies in a raid on another gang. Assault rifles. Medigel. Food. When they found the sniper rifle, there was a discussion on whether or not to use it. Some in the gang said they should sell it. Others said that the Reds should use it against their enemies. But who had sniper rifle training in a street gang?

They ended up giving you the rifle. Told you to find out more information about it, how to take care of it, what kind of ammunition it took. You researched it with all the free time you had, learned how to shoot with it. The first time you fired it, the kick nearly took your shoulder off because you weren't bracing it properly.

A number of the older people in the gang didn't like that you had the rifle. They saw it as a power play on your part, a way to move up the lines. After someone tried to slit your throat and managed to leave a 6-inch gash from eyebrow to cheek on your face, you started sleeping up on the rooftop with a knife. The gang leader told them that violence against you would not be tolerated, but it wasn't until your first few missions that people started leaving you alone. You supposed seeing someone's head reduced to bits in seconds in front of their eyes made them reconsider trying to kill you.

This last kill had been a former Red that had decided he didn't like the leadership and defected to another gang. He should have seen it coming, but he thought he could leave and survive. No one ever left the Reds and survived. It's why you're still here, following orders, trying to keep your head down.

Still, they keep you in reserve. You're their secret weapon, their ace in the hole, their last resort when all else fails. Any tool that is used too often loses its edge. That's why you're not called to service again until a few months later. You're given the location, told where to go, who to look for, when to shoot. Not many specifics - clothing, height, eye color. Less than normal.

You do your normal scouting ahead of time. Never fire from a location that you've never seen before. Know the ins and outs. All possible routes. Traffic patterns. Alternate escapes. It's kept you alive between being able to escape from retribution and keeping the gang leader happy. You're useful, an asset, but you keep your head down and never try to stir the pot. Politics get people killed - you are a tool. You're not kept around to think, you're kept around because you're the best shot.

And yet, you can't help but note where the Alliance recruiting station is. It's not useful information to you to do your job, but it's been catching your attention more and more. You find yourself pausing on the other side of the street to study the poster outside. See the stars. Join the Alliance military. The more practical part of you says to keep your head down and keep moving. But there's another part of you, the part that still wonders who your parents were. That part wants to know if life could be different. It asks that after every mission, and it's been getting louder.

****You come to the leader of the Reds a day before the mission, ask for your gun and an extra sidearm. He looks at you quizzically: you've only ever needed the rifle before. He's never had reason to doubt you, though, and you're given a pistol 'just in case'.


	2. The Fork in the Road

Day of the mission. You're set up in your spot, towel folded and placed on the lip of the roof before the barrel of the rifle comes to rest upon it. Sunset, he said, and the shadows in the street below are growing longer by the minute.

There's movement on the street corner. A small bandana, tied to a street post, catches the wind and snaps ominously. The signal. You exhale, calming your nerves, seeking out that place inside you where the world no longer matters, you no longer matter. You are merely the extension of the gun, an aiming device to guide the bullet in the chamber to its final resting place.

Face against the spyglass, one eye peering through the glass to locate the target. You sweep the street, looking for details that match the description. Not her, not him... And then you see it. You shake your head; surely that can't be the case. But another sweep of the street says otherwise. The clothes, the height, the color of the eyes...it all matches, and now you know why your leader refused to give more details.

You're not expected to take out a human this time, like all the times before. This time, it's a turian. It seems to not know that there is anything amiss as it finishes its business in the storefront and exits onto slowly darkening streets.

One target. You put the spyglass aside and sight down the scope. The crosshairs settle almost lovingly on the place where fringe meets skull. You've seen the vids, heard of the First Contact War. You were barely a year old when it happened. Too young to form a bias against turians, too young to remember the Council stepping in to negotiate peace.

But...

Your hand hesitates, fingers curling around the trigger guard instead of resting lightly against the trigger. You've never seen one in person. You find yourself studying the markings on its face...his face, how the mandibles twitch every so slightly. You wonder why he would choose to come to Earth, knowing that there would be bias against his kind on the human homeworld. Why here? Why this part of town?

Studying him has distracted you, and the target is almost to the bandana on the street corner. You refocus the lens, mentally adjust for angle, wind speed. Your finger moves to touch the trigger.

It's getting hard to focus on the turian's head. Your breathing is erratic, your hands shaking. Why this person? The others were members of rival gangs, humans being shot down by humans. But this... The weight of it settles on you. Who is this turian? Why does your leader want him dead? Is he an important ambassador? A diplomat? Or is it just because he's a turian?

The last question sends a chill down your spine. The way he dresses, the way he walks... No dignitary would be caught in this part of town without any sort of guard. He is the only turian on a near-empty street.

Your mind races with possibilities. You could not pull the trigger. You could let him walk. But if you do, you've signed your death sentence. It would be an open act of defiance, and no matter how useful you are, you've now become a threat. But the longer you linger, watching him, you realize that you can't go through with it. You don't want to know what color the mist of brain matter and blood will be.

You don't have a choice. You've been given a mission.

But...perhaps there's another way.

As the turian reaches even with the bandana, you take aim. Your finger pulls back with the same practiced motion it's used to, driving the hammer home on the back of the bullet. The stock kicks back against your shoulder perhaps a bit harder than normal, as if it knows what you've done.

There is a small puff next to the turian as the bullet embeds itself in the brick. A bit of fringe drops to the street as the three-clawed hand claps to the back of his head. He looks up, and you can see his pupils through the scope.

A human would have run from a near miss. He just...stands there, staring up at you, like a near-perfect statue. A few drops of blood hit the pavement, and you can't help but notice that turian blood is blue.

The world narrows to the two of you, human and turian, hunter and prey. You could take another shot, drop him where he stands. But if you were going to do that, you would have done that with the first shot. As if he senses your hesitation, his mandibles twitch, breaking the illusion. You think he might be smiling at you.

And then the moment is past. He disappears around the corner, leaving you with the weight of consequences on your shoulders. You missed your shot. You never miss. That's why they trusted you.

You go through the normal routine as if this had been a successful mission. Leave no evidence. You pick up the shell casing and place it in your shirt pocket as a reminder. Eyes look across the rooftops. Three rooftops over at the very least. But there was nothing to run from.

You decide that tonight you can take a different route.

The moon has barely risen above the horizon when you arrive at the meeting place. You're hours late. The leader is furious. He demands you explain yourself. The rest of the gang is there too, watching. Waiting.

A thousand answers spring to mind, but only one will set you free. You stand there quietly, ignoring the weight of the rucksack on your shoulder, hand under the canvas as he screams profanities at you. You have ruined the gang's chance to rise up in the world, he says. Turned your back on your race. He's old enough to remember the First Contact War, to be nursed on the hatred of the unknown.

When he's finally worked himself up into a rage, he draws his gun, shaking it at you like a parent might scold a child. You should tell your family why you disappointed them, turned your back on them, he says. You're to be an example for the rest of them. Over fifty successful missions, but your failure on this one cannot be ignored.

The pistol slides into your hand, finger stroking the safety off. You cocked it before you ever left the rooftop. Your leader has taken the time of your silence to point out everything he's ever done for you, everything the Reds have done for you, and he's just finishing his speech when the barrel of the gun catches the moonlight.

"No more," you say. The muzzle flash is blinding in the darkness. The mist from his head is illuminated in the glow of the flickering streetlamp above. Red, like all the rest.

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**A/N: **Whoof! Hi guys! Huge apologies for taking so long to get this second chapter up. I've been sitting on it for a bit, tweaking it here and there, and then life got in the way. There should only be one more chapter for this, and hopefully it won't take two months to post.


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